


Though I Have to Say Goodbye

by imma_redshirt



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scenes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-27
Updated: 2018-08-29
Packaged: 2019-02-07 11:52:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12840588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imma_redshirt/pseuds/imma_redshirt
Summary: It's a hard thing, finally succumbing to an old argument.And... a few months away would hurt. But it wouldn't be forever. He'd come back. He had to.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just a lil self indulgent thing to calm all these feels swirling all over the place. I saw Coco after Thanksgiving, and I'm still reeling. And crying. Just a bit. I don't even know if this short thing makes any sense--it was written as I was listening to the soundtrack, and when I listen to those songs, I'm just blinded with the _feeeels,_ ok?
> 
> Enjoy!

The day was ending. It had been long, starting with a wedding, and then a quince, both under a blue sky with few clouds for shade. Hector still had sweat stains all over his shirt, and when he removed his hat, his hair was still damp. Playing for both events with a few acquaintances and Ernesto, moving from the stifling heat of the church to the stinging heat under the sky had been both entertaining and exhausting. He was beat. And, _hijole,_ he stank. 

But the memories of the day (and the horrible stench attacking his nose) had been pushed far from the forefront of his mind. 

Through the open window, Hector could see dark sky of night setting in. Though the night usually brought cooler weather and respite from the heat of the summer day, the wind that blew in this night was hot. 

His mouth was dry. He needed a drink. But the bottle Ernesto had brought for them was empty, and there was nothing else at hand. So much for that. With the back of his hand, he wiped the sweat from his forehead. He could feel the tickle of more sweat down his neck and considered rubbing at it, but when he felt more immediately replace the lake he had swiped from his face, he thought, _what’s the point?_

“Héctor. You must listen to me.”

Slouched on the low, hard bed he’d retreated to minutes ago, Héctor adjusted his guitar on his lap, and met Ernesto’s gaze. His friend kneeled in front of him, one heavy hand gripping Héctor’s shoulder with more force than Héctor thought was necessary. He’d demanded Héctor’s attention the moment he’d strode in through the door, an old argument brought up once again.

Body heavy with exhaustion, mind bogged down by fatigue and his own battling thoughts, Héctor could do nothing but listen.

“One cannot deny who one is meant to be. And you, mi amigo,” Ernesto squeezed his shoulder, “You are meant to be a musician. A _famous_ musician, across Mexico, across the _world._ Come with me, Héctor, to play for the millions.”

Héctor met his reflection in the white of his guitar. To sing in front of a crowd, to see the smiles, to hear the applause, to have a thousand voices singing with him--it was what he’d loved when he and Imelda sang together, standing in those small gatherings, even when the crowds had been thin. 

But… he’d had Imelda with him, then. His wife’s voice rising in the middle of the song, stirring his heart like no other. He’d always faced the crowd at her side, in the heat of the day and under the stars of cold night. If he left, she would surely remain behind with Coco. She’d been adamant about that. She wanted to set roots in their little home, with Coco, their first born, but hopefully not the last. Little Coco, with her tiny hands, and her big eyes, and the way she glowed when he sang for her the songs he’d written for her and only her. 

They’d always wanted a family, but to give up what Héctor had been born to do…

“Don’t let your talent die in this place,” Ernesto said. He watched Héctor’s eyes, and there was undercurrent of desperation in his voice as he continued, “Héctor. You were meant for _more._ You can always return here. But if you do not leave _now,_ when will you?”

He could always return. He _would_ return. He would never forget his little family, and their memory would bring him home.

A few months away would hurt. But it wouldn’t be forever.

_Coco, mijita, again, I must travel far, but I will be back._

_Remember me._

“ _Bueno,_ ” he said, and Ernesto grinned. “I need to see my family first, and then we'll go. But not for long. I’m coming home, Ernesto. I have to.”

“Of course you are!” Ernesto slapped his shoulder and laughed. “You think I can stand to have you around forever?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about, I am a _joy_ to have around,” Héctor said, grinning, and forcing himself to stomp out that horrible feeling like a boulder in his chest.

He’d come back. He couldn’t stay away if they paid him.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh, just moving some writing practice on over from Tumblr. I was curious about the conversation Héctor and Ernesto might have shared before the scene in Héctor's flashback, and I thought it would make a good addition to this ficlet I wrote right after seeing the movie. 
> 
> As always, if you spot any mistakes at all, please let me know!

“You’re not _serious,_ Héctor?”

“What about me makes you think I’m _not_ being serious?”

Ernesto didn’t answer, and Héctor turned away before the bewilderment in his friend’s eyes could change his mind any further. Setting his jaw, he dug into his pocket for the key to their room, and unlocked the door as quickly as possible.

“But!” Ernesto said, desperation coloring his voice as Héctor pushed the door open and strode into the dimly lit hotel room. “Héctor! We’re doing so well, we’re so close–”

“How long have you been saying that?” Héctor said without turning. His suitcase lay open on his bed where he’d left it that morning. He’d only opened it to grab what money he’d had left for breakfast, and had left it there after Ernesto had rushed him out the door to make it in time to their show. But now that he saw it there, open and empty, he was glad of the convenience. As if he’d known that morning that he would finally have enough and leave for home on the last train of the night.

In a way, he supposed he had known for weeks. The homesickness had built up in his chest until he felt that sack of sand sat there, warm with memories of home but too heavy and painful to carry any longer. The want to return home had become unbearable, but his friend’s constant reassurances that they were close to achieving fame and more riches that they’d ever been able to dream of had tethered him to their tour. Traveling from town to town, surviving on what money they made after each show that steadily gained more and more strangers in attendance. He sent most of his earnings home with his letters, and kept only what he needed for food and travel and the occasional souvenir for his daughter. And with each letter he’d sent off, he’d felt a little bit of his resolve go with it, and the homesickness growing.

With a steadying breath, he went to the small bedside drawers that were pressed against the cracked wall and began to pull out the clothes he had hastily stuffed in there. His shirts, his trousers, undergarments and the patched socks he’d worn down to threads over their trip. He felt more than saw Ernesto retreat to his own bed, and felt growing unease at the harsh breathing he heard from his friend.

“Of course it isn’t going to happen overnight!” He heard Ernesto say. Still without facing him, Héctor rolled each article of clothing into quasi-neat bundles and stuffed them into the empty suitcase. He gritted his teeth as Ernesto continued in an angry rush, “I’ve told you, you have to be patient! It won’t be much longer until we are finally _there,_ Héctor!”

Héctor could keep silent no longer. He threw a bundle of socks into his suitcase and gestured sharply at Ernesto. “It’s been months! You said it would take weeks! And you never said we’d travel this far, Ernesto, for this long! You lied to me!”

“I am doing this for your own good,” Ernesto said. “Otherwise you would have remained in Santa Cecilia for the rest of your life, wasting away your talent!”

Ernesto stood, and suddenly the anger Héctor had seen growing in his face was gone, replaced with the familiar expression of the man who had been a brother to Héctor for years. “My friend, please, I know I have been hard on you lately. I know. But, without you, I would never have gotten this far. I owe you everything.”

Fury had flared in Héctor at the words _“wasting away”_ , but it was abated for him to keep his harsh words to himself by the grief in his friend’s voice, the unspoken apology in his eyes.  
“Your songs,” Ernesto said. “Where would I be without them?”

He held his hands out, and in his tight grip was a small red journal.

“When did you take that?” Héctor asked, bewildered. He’d tucked the journal away in the drawer that very morning after scribbling a drawing of a local dog for Coco. “Ernesto? I never–”

“These songs, Héctor,” Ernesto said, letting the book fall open in his hands. He flipped through the pages, looking at the neatly written notes and lyrics as if the pages were made of silver and gold. “The crowds loved _Un Poco Loco_ and _The World es mi Familia!_ If you would only let me sing the others, imagine the possibilities–imagine how much they would love us–”

Héctor dropped the last of his shirts into the suitcase and moved around the bed, eyes on the little book in Ernesto’s hands. “Ernesto–” 

_“Recuérdame,_ Héctor!” Ernesto said. He’d stopped flipping through the pages, and was tapping one finger firmly against the title of the song Héctor had shared with no one but his daughter. “This is magnificent, if we sang it tomorrow I promise you we will be stars before the year is over!”

“I can’t!” Héctor said with brashness that surprised them both, and he used his friend’s shock to steal the book back with a swipe of his hand, shutting it before Ernesto could see any more of the lyrics he’d kept secret. Ernesto gaped at him, a mess of emotions fighting for dominance in his eyes, and again Héctor felt a flash of stinging guilt. 

He took another steadying breath, holding the book close. He’d first sung the lyrics of Remember Me years ago, when Coco had only been able to stare up at him and gurgle, her little hands curling around his fingers as he cradled her close. He’d written them down one late night, smiling, never intending for anyone to see them.

The very thought of a crowd of strangers hearing the song only he and his daughter knew was… it left an empty feeling in his chest. He’d never been one to hide his love for his family, but this song belonged to Coco. It was hers. No one else’s. 

“I can’t,” he said more softly. Ernesto let out a rushed breath, and Héctor hurried to explain. “It’s Coco’s, Ernesto. This one is not for anyone but her.”

“But–”

“I don’t want to argue this with you,” Héctor said. He felt the weight of his desire to return home pull at his heart, even when Ernesto collapsed onto his bed, hands opening and closing into fists on his knees, his eyes staring up at Héctor as if he were lost. 

“We don’t have to argue,” Ernesto said quickly. He gestured at the book, desperation in his voice as he said, “We can use other songs. Anything. Haven’t you enjoyed playing for the crowds? They love us!”

“I know,” Héctor said, grimacing. It wasn’t a lie. The crowds had reacted to their singing and dancing with such enthusiasm. In the beginning, Héctor had been overwhelmed, but he’d adored the cheers and applause and seeing people dance to his music. The crowds had adored him and he’d adored their praise.

But it didn’t take long to miss Imelda at his side, singing while he played the guitar she had bought for him, and her breathless cheer behind the stage when they finished the songs. He missed meeting her gaze in the soft light of evening, and in the comfort of their home, knowing he could leave the sounds of the crowds behind to find relief in her arms.

It didn’t feel right without her there.

“They love your songs!” Ernesto continued, ripping Héctor from his thoughts.

“I _know–”_

“We could have so much,” Ernesto said. “So much, if we just continue moving forward! This is our moment!”

Héctor thought of his childhood, of listening to Ernesto plan a future of luxury and fame. All Héctor had ever done was nod and follow, nod and follow. 

He’d wanted to share the joy of music with the world, but glory and tall mansions and starry eyed fans had never been his dream. 

Ernesto had never asked what he wanted.

“I’m done, Ernesto,” Héctor said, steeling his resolve in the face of Ernesto’s shock, and turned back to his suitcase.

Flipping the book open, he looked one last time at the words in it. It had opened to _The World Es Mi Familia,_ a song he’d written when he was much younger.  
But his familia was miles away. He’d left them.

With a flash of guilt, he realized he hadn’t sung Remember Me that night,and all he could think of was his daughter kneeling alone on her bed and singing gently to an empty room.

He was returning to her and Imelda. He was going home. He only hoped that his daughter had not hated him so much for being gone that she’d forgotten his face.

He shut the book, tossed it onto the bundles of clothes, closed the suitcase, and picked it up without looking at his friend, because he feared Ernesto’s lost look would hold him back.

He grabbed his guitar case and heard Ernesto leave his bed.

“But you want to give up _now?_ ” Ernesto said, frustration growing in his voice. “When we’re _this close_ to reaching our dream?”

Keeping his irritation in check and his voice calm, Héctor turned to Ernesto who had followed him to the door, and finally voiced what he’d only recently realized. “This was your dream. You’ll manage.”  
He got a good look at the shock and outrage on Ernesto’s face before turning back to the door, but he didn’t have the time to feel guilty any longer. The last train would leave soon. He had to make it before he was forced to remain in the city for another night.

He was pulled back, the suitcase almost jerked out of his hand, and Ernesto’s growl, “I can’t do this without your songs, Héctor!”

Unable to hold back any longer, Héctor turned and jerked his suitcase from his friend’s hand, vaguely realizing that this was probably the last time he could call Ernesto his friend.  
“I’m going home, Ernesto! Hate me if you want, but my mind is made up.”

He turned to open the door, steeling himself for the angry words that Ernesto was sure to throw at his back.

But for a moment, there was nothing.

The door opened to the dark of night, and Ernesto’s voice washed over him with the chill from the December air.

“Oh, my friend,” Ernesto said, slowly, reassuring, all traces of anger gone. “I could never hate you.”

Héctor paused. He felt a pulse of guilt, a sliver of relief and hope. His desire to hurry home was unbearable, but his friend’s voice held him back and he turned reluctantly, angry with himself for craving Ernesto’s understanding before the end.

“If you must leave,” Ernesto said, smiling at Héctor as he had so many times before. “Then I’m sending you off with a toast.”

With that, Ernesto turned to the table he’d arranged their liquor on. The door remained open, and Héctor glanced out at the light from the nearby lamppost and the road that lead to the station before deciding that a moment could not hurt, if that moment meant Ernesto was still his friend. If staying a moment meant saving a friendship that had lasted for years, he was willing to wait.

He sighed and felt his shoulders relax, and watched Ernesto’s back fondly, the frustration ebbing away. For days he had agonized over Ernesto’s reaction if he ever left, readying himself for the end of their friendship.

But Ernesto had always had a soft spot that made him see reason in the end. 

Héctor was going to miss him.

The night air was cool, the liquor warm on his tongue, and Ernesto’s presence at his side was reassuring as they traveled down the empty road, finally on his way home.


End file.
